"No! You must not! Here we are, thank heaven! Perchance Lady Buttershaw had not time to sort the mail, and now my letter is waiting upstairs."
The house was gloomy and dark, and resounded with the voice of Lady Buttershaw, who surged across the entrance hall in full cry, surrounded by her little crowd of sycophants.
Upon catching sight of Zoe, she bellowed redundantly, "So there you are! 'Tis a good thing you are come home. The streets are more unsafe daily! Hourly! You will do well to keep indoors for the rest of the day!"
As if to emphasize her remarks, she flung the hood of her cloak over her head with a dramatic sweep. Unhappily, her vigour dislodged her wig, which settled down over her eyes, blinding her. When the pandemonium died down she seemed to have forgotten her own advice, and the small and vociferous party went out into the unsafe streets with no evidence of trepidation.
Zoe proceeded up the stairs, and Gorton murmured, "You could have asked her la'ship about your letter, Miss."
Zoe shook her head, and all but ran to her bedchamber. There was a folded paper on the mantelpiece. With a sigh of relief, she flew to take it up, but her heart sank. It was a note from Lady Julia's footman, Whipley, to the effect that her ladyship was gone out with friends and would not need Miss Grainger until this evening. Exasperated, Zoe tossed the note aside and paced restlessly to the window.
She was only dimly aware of the lowering clouds, or how the wind whipped the branches of the trees about, for her thoughts were turned inward. Any lingering doubts she may have held were gone now. Peregrine was absolutely right. There really was a League of Jewelled Men; they really were hunting her beloved brother. And, incredible as it seemed, Lady Buttershaw was a member of the League! She had opened and read Papa's letter, and now she had kept another letter, which had almost certainly been written by Travis.
Gorton, who had made a quick search of the bed, the chest of drawers, and the little secretary in the corner, said worriedly that the letter was not to be found.
"Of course 'tis not," said Zoe. "I am not meant to have it."
Gorton gripped her hands together and said she could not believe that. "Whay ever would may lady keep your letters from you, Miss Zoe? Her la'ship is not kind, if Aye dare remark it, but she was properly bred up and is Quality. She would not do anything so low!"
An implacable anger was burning in Zoe's heart. "She is gone out. And Lady Julia is out as well." She looked steadily at her nervous abigail. "I mean to have my letter, Elsie."
"Well, er, yes, of course, Miss. When may lady comes home—"
"Now," said Zoe, starting to the door.
With a yelp of alarm, Gorton flew to stand before it. "But Hackman cannot give it to you, Miss! Not even if he wanted, which he don't if Ay know him! And Lady Buttershaw's woman is so sour as any lemon and wouldn't lift a hand to help, not if you begged her!"
"I do not mean to beg anybody. Or to ask anybody. 'Tis my letter! I will have it!" There was stark horror on Gorton's paling countenance and Zoe added earnestly, "Elsie, there is something very wicked going on in this house. I cannot tell you all of it. I can only say that my dear brother's very life may depend on my reading that letter, and—I mean to do so!"
"Oh, Miss," wailed Gorton. "How can you?"
"Does her ladyship lock the door to her room?"
"No, of course not! But—"
"Then what is to prevent me from going down there and walking in?"
"Oh… Miss! Oh, my dear departed granny! Oh, help!"
Zoe reached for the door handle.
Really frightened, Gorton caught her arm and cried imploringly, "Do not, Miss Zoe! They won't allow it! Hackham will stop you. Or Whipley or—or one of the lackeys. Miss—you dare not! Nobody goes to Lady Buttershaw's apartments 'less they're summoned. Nobody!"
Zoe was afraid also, but she said, "I know, but I must! From what I have seen of Hackham and Whipley, they're not the kind to tend to their duties when there's a chance of avoiding them. With both their ladyships gone out, they're likely down in the kitchen this very minute, badgering Chef to open a bottle and slice some cake for them! Will there be other maids, Elsie? What of her dresser?"
"Lady Buttershaw sent her to Sundial Abbey to fetch some winter cloaks. She'll be away another day, at least. But—but her woman, Miss! Such a prune-faced creature is Truscott, and has never said a kind word to me in all the years I've worked here."
In her agitation, Gorton had neglected to employ her careful accent, and Zoe said, "You really are worried for my sake. Thank you, dear Elsie. Please, won't you help me? If you could just go down to Lady Buttershaw's suite and knock on the door and ask Truscott—"
Gorton gave a little shriek and shrank away. "Oh, lor'! Oh, I couldn't! Not never, Miss! Oh, I'd—I'd swoon away afore I even got to the door. Never been near it, I hasn't!"
She looked ready to swoon at the very thought of taking such a terrible step. Zoe, who well knew the power of fear, said gently, "No, I understand. Then do you think you could instead keep watch and come and tell me at once if Truscott goes out? You could do that for me, couldn't you?"
Trembling, but very conscious of the fact that this pretty young lady had been most kind to her and to Cecil, Gorton nodded convulsively and made her shaken way down the stairs to keep watch.
Thus it was that only a quarter of an hour later, Zoe was advised the coast was clear. Her pulses quickened as she slipped into the corridor. It was chilly and dim, and she walked along rapidly. Unlike Lady Julia's wing, there were no doors blocking off Lady Buttershaw's apartments. Probably, thought Zoe, because the woman inspired such terror in the staff that they would not dare come near her domain.
Only when she passed the last of the guest suites did it occur to her that she had no idea which of the remaining doors opened into my lady's study, or bedchamber, where she thought it most likely that the missing letter might be found.
The first door seemed to loom up and tower over her. She bit her lip nervously, raised a hand and knocked. Silence. She knocked again, then opened the door. She looked into a room that made her blink. It was evidently reserved for my lady's toilette and was rather astonishingly garish. The walls were hung with a silk print of purple and gold fans, the velvet draperies at the windows were scarlet, two white chests were gilt trimmed. There was a chaise longue covered in deep pink velvet, and in the centre of the room stood a large hip bath, a fine cheval-glass beside it. "My goodness!" murmured Zoe, and hurried across the corridor.
On this side she discovered a room that had the air of an audience chamber; certainly not the type of chamber she sought. The next two doors opened into a green saloon that was almost a shrine. The air had a musty smell, the walls were hung with ancient tapestries, family portraits, and historical memorabilia. There were stands containing armoured figures; many weapons of bygone centuries hung in racks or were mounted in glass cases. And the whole was so reminiscent of Lady Buttershaw, that Zoe shivered and closed the door hurriedly, her nerves tightening because this desperate expedition was taking so much time.
She recrossed the corridor, and stepped into a large and luxurious bedchamber. Once more, the decor seemed voluptuous and out of character: the curtains on the enormous canopied bed were of naughtily sheer purple silk with gold tassels, and the window draperies were a rich purple velvet. A large portrait hung on the wall beside the bed. She gave it a cursory glance. The gentleman was not above thirty, she judged, and despite an air of pride and cynicism, was extraordinarily handsome, with finely chiselled features and hair of jet black. The eyes were deep-set and thickly lashed but of a slightly alien shape, like none she had ever seen. Hurrying to the dressing table, she had a brief thought that he was the last type of man she would have expected Lord Buttershaw to be, and then forgot about him. There were no letters on the dressing table, nor did the three chests of drawers yield anything of interest. With a nervous moan, she sped back into the corridor.
A parlour came next, over-furnished and over-heated, with a well-banked fire burning
under a ponderous chimney-piece despite the absence of the owner. One swift glance convinced her to move on. And, at last, she entered a spacious combination book room and study. Her hands were by now damp and her heartbeat erratic. She ran to the large and beautifully wrought desk before the windows. There were several letters lying there, but the one she sought seemed to leap at her.
"Thank heaven!" she whispered, and snatched it up.
Travis' writing was a little less neat than usual, but he had been ill, which would explain that. She moved to the windows and read the cramped and crossed lines eagerly:
My dearest sister,
By the grace of God I am back in England, but under circumstances that forbid me to present myself to my father. I must tell you that I was sent home following a long illness. En route, I came into possession of a document of great significance. It is an extreme treasonable Agreement, Zoe, between several highly born British aristocrats, and some powerful gentlemen of France, led by Marshal Jean-Jacques Barthélemy, of whom I am very sure you have heard.
I am sworn to deliver this paper to the Horse Guards. However, you may guess that heads will roll should I succeed, and several attempts have been made to stop me. I have been obliged to hide myself, but I fear I may be discovered at any time. If I attempt to get to Travisford or to Whitehall, I am very sure to be intercepted. I hired a fellow who seems to be honest, and sent him down to try and speak with you at home. He was chased off by my father's new bride, but luckily met dear old Bleckert, who told him where you are now staying. (I shall be interested to know why you are no longer in residence at Travisford!)
It is a piece of luck for me that you are in Town, however, where I can visit you, hopefully with less chance of putting you in danger. There are many men I could ask for the help I very badly need, but this plot appears so widespread that I dare not confide in anyone save you, dear Zoe, or Peregrine Cranford, whose integrity I would trust with my life.
I mean to rest here for a day or two. Then, if all goes well, I shall call on you. In the event this is not suitable, know that I am staying at the little inn Mama told us of. Do you recall? The place with the waiter who was so amusing. Oh, and I am at present using the name of the music master you fell in love with when you were ten… I feel sure you cannot have forgot him!
My deepest apologies for greeting you with such trying news. Pray discuss it with no one. You cannot guess how I long to see you, little sister. And I see that I have been too wrapped up in myself to enquire as to your health. I trust it is good and that you will forgive
Your loving brother,
Travis
Zoe stared down at the paper in her hands, her eyes wide and unblinking. They knew now that he was in England. But, thank heaven, his name and whereabouts could be known only to herself, and so—She must not stay here! She started to the door with the letter, then paused. If she took it, Lady Buttershaw might guess she had dared to come and appropriate it, and she would be warned. No. It was better to leave it here. The important thing was that now she knew where to reach Travis. She must do so at once!
The corridor seemed darker than ever, and a few downstairs candles had been lit, throwing a soft glow on the walls. Running lightly towards her room, she heard a man say, "I allus thought th' old crow was touched in the upper works, but I didn't think she was that far took! She could give him twenty year, at least."
Zoe stopped abruptly. It must be two of the footmen! They were coming up the stairs, and she was too far from her own room to reach it before they would turn at the first landing! Once again, she must hide. To her left was the big musty room with all the historical paraphernalia. The two men might logically be going in there. Desperate, she plunged into the room on her right, and knew she would be safe for the moment. They certainly would not come into Lady Buttershaw's bedchamber.
A voice she recognized as that of Hackham, her ladyship's personal footman, sneered, "Lots of rich old hags buys themselves pretty boys, mate."
"Aye, but not that pretty boy! She's gone off her tibby, proper. Unless you're bamming me."
It sounded as if they had stopped just outside! Zoe's heart convulsed as the door latch lifted. 'Dear God!' she thought, panicked. 'They are coming in here!'
She was so frightened that she turned completely around, searching for a refuge. Her wide paniers would prevent her from climbing into one of the three large presses, or slipping under the bed. Then she saw another door at the side of the room. A dressing room, perchance, or the abigail's room. Running to it, her heart in her mouth, she heard Hackham say threateningly, "I'll prove it, all right. But—you ever tell I let you in here, it'll be the worse for you, my cove!"
The door started to open. Zoe rushed through the inner door, and had time only to draw it partially closed.
She was in a small dark room.
And several people sat there, watching her!
Her heart stood still. As from a great distance she heard the two footmen laughing softly but hilariously. In this room nobody spoke. Hardly able to breathe, she reached out to steady herself against a chest, only to discern another face nodding at her from atop it. A featureless face. She thought, 'Thank goodness! They are only wigs on head stands!' The relief was so intense that she had a sudden need to laugh… To shriek with laughter… Or to burst into tears. Her knees gave out under her and she sank down, pressing both hands over her mouth, lest hysteria overcome her.
Through the slightly open door she caught a glimpse of the other man. Whipley. Lady Julia's personal footman. Hackham was telling him not to make so much noise.
Whipley gulped, "I never woulda believed it! Right by her bed, too! Can't you just see the old bag, lying there, eating her heart out for the 'breed'? And him not worth a decent Englishman wiping his boots on! Cor! Can't help laughing, can yer? If ever I see such a sorry set-to!"
Hackham said, "Well, you've seen one now. And that's sixpence you owe me!"
"It was worth it, mate! Come on down to my room, and I'll pay up!"
"Careful! You moved that eiderdown. Tidy it up, quick! She's got eyes like a cat, and if she ever thought I'd been in here—Gawd help us all!"
A rustle was followed by some whispering and the cautious opening of the outer door.
They were gone.
As soon as her rubbery knees would support her, Zoe followed. She could hear the housekeeper's voice as she passed the stairs, and her blood ran cold as a familiar bellow assailed her ears. Lady Buttershaw had returned! She flew along the corridor to her room, horrified to realize how narrow an escape she'd had.
Her bedroom door opened and Gorton's head peeped out. Zoe rushed to her, and suddenly was in her arms, weeping.
"Oh… Miss!" quavered Gorton, weeping also. "I were that scared! When Hackham and that horrid Whipley went past I was sure… as sure you'd be caught. Oh, Miss! You're so brave!"
"Brave!" Zoe groped for her handkerchief and wiped her eyes furiously. "Only see how brave I am! Snivelling and shaking like any leaf, when I should be strong and—and leaving this beastly place!"
Her face a study in distress, Gorton cried, "Leaving? You—you don't never mean for good and all, Miss Zoe? Say you don't!"
"I must." Zoe ran to snatch a warm cloak from the press. "I cannot explain now, Elsie, but at all costs I must keep my brother from…"
Her words died away. The letter had come on Saturday, and this was Monday. Travis had written that he would call 'in a day or two'! What if he should come even while she was on her way to him? There was a strong family resemblance. He was sure to be recognized, even if he gave his assumed name. Chilled, she thought, 'Heaven help the dear soul if they ever get their hands on him!' No, she could not leave. But somehow she must warn him.
Gorton asked hopefully, "Has you changed your mind, Miss?"
"Yes." Zoe handed her the cloak. "But I must get a message to my brother. If I wrote a letter, could you take it to—Oh, no. That will not do. Whipley would likely follow you!" She began to pace up and down,
wringing her hands, and trying to think. If only Peregrine would come… or if she could just get word to Maria… Of course! Maria could go to Sir Owen, who would tell Peregrine and all would be well! She said, "Give me my cloak, Elsie, and put on your own. We're going out for a walk!"
Downstairs, a lackey sat on a stool in the alcove by the front doors. He was engrossed in picking at his cuticles, but he sprang up as Zoe hurried across the hall, and bowed respectfully. "Very nasty out there, Miss Grainger," he offered.
It was unprecedented behaviour, and Zoe's strained nerves grew tighter. She said coolly, "Indeed? I feel the need of some fresh air, even so. Be so good as to open the door."
Instead of obeying, he moved to block the way. "The streets is most unsafe," he said, "and her la'ship asked partic'ler that you stay indoors this afternoon. If you please."
"I do not please," said Zoe, trying to look haughty. "Now, stand aside at once!"
"I am indeed sorry, Miss Grainger," said Arbour, coming across the hall at his stately pace, "but Lady Buttershaw left strict orders that you should not venture out. There have been more street riots, you see, and…" He shrugged apologetically.
"Are you saying I am forbidden to go out for a walk?" demanded Zoe. "Lady Julia said nothing of the kind to me."
Arbour looked pained, and murmured that Lady Yerville would return shortly, and he would be only too glad to abide by her instructions.
Zoe stared at him. He was clearly not a happy man, probably living in dread of being turned off because he had left the casement open last night. It would be more than he dared do to contravene Lady Buttershaw's instructions.
"Perhaps," he suggested, "Miss would care to walk in the back garden?"
"Miss" had no time to waste on back gardens, for already another scheme was forming in her mind. She told Arbour coldly that she would wait until Lady Yerville returned, and went back up the stairs once more.
In her bedchamber, she threw her cloak aside and hurried to the desk.
Gorton said in a failing voice, "They don't mean to let you go out, Miss Zoe! Oh, how dreadful it is! Whatever does it all mean?"
Never Doubt I Love Page 26